Collected Fiction (1940-1963)

by William P. McGivern

  Sharon stared at him in bewilderment.

  “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “Nothing could be more obvious,” Drake grinned. “You certainly remember the story of Scheherazade, the heroine of the Arabian Nights? The beautiful damsel who bewitched the Caliph of Bagdad with her highly imaginative stories and saved her own life by so doing.”

  “But,” Sharon protested, blushing, “I never told him anything like the stories in the Arabian Nights! Those stories are terrible. I mean,” she added hastily, “I’ve been told they’re terrible.”

  “Maybe you didn’t tell them,” Drake said, “but you certainly got credit for them. In old Arabic the name of the story teller was ‘Sharzard.’ That’s close enough to ‘Sharon Ward’ to make the entire thing fit perfectly.”

  Ali Baba interrupted irritably.

  “Come, we must hurry.”

  “That’s right,” Drake said. He grinned at Sharon. “So long, honey. Remember, you’re going to wait for me.”

  HUMAI led the girl to a small bench on which a delicate, coiled apparatus was set He made minute adjustments on several dials and then clamped a filament wire to Sharon’s left wrist.

  “You will feel nothing,” he said gently.

  “Goodbye, darling,” Sharon cried.

  Drake kissed her quickly.

  “A year isn’t so long,” he murmured. “And,” he grinned, stepping back from her, “you’ll have something better to do than tell stories when we get married.”

  “Well,” Sharon said, dropping her eyes, “naturally.”

  Drake was watching her, memorizing each of her lovely features, the curved arch of her eyebrows, the way her hair fell in waves to her shoulders, when suddenly her body seemed to shimmer, her features blurred faintly as if he were looking at her through a screen—and then she was gone!

  He stepped forward involuntarily, a shocked, lost feeling in his heart.

  “You are next,” Humai said.

  Drake clasped Ali Baba’s hand tightly.

  “Why don’t you come too? You’d be only a year beyond me. I’d wait and watch for you.”

  “No, my friend,” Ali Baba smiled. Humai fastened the filament to Drake’s wrist,

  “I’m sorry,” Drake said.

  “So am I,” Ali Baba said, shaking his head. “We have been good comrades.”

  Drake was thinking how stupid he had been in not realizing before the relationship between Sharon Ward and the Scheherazade whom most scholars considered a mythical character. He realized that the story of Ali Baba and his forty thieves would be told and retold in Bagdad and gradually take its place in the legends of the Thousand and One Nights.

  If he had known that before, he wouldn’t have allowed Ali Baba and his men to blunder into the trap in the Caliph’s palace; for the story of that betrayal he had read in college. But it did no good to think of such things now.

  But he did think of one other thing. “Ali Baba,” he said suddenly. “You will not be with us very long.”

  “Yes, my comrade?”

  “Speak quickly,” Humai said.

  “Ali Baba,” Drake said, “will you promise to do me one more favor?”

  “Name it, comrade, and by the sacred name of Allah, it shall be done.”

  “Those poor wretches on the wheel that operates your cavern gate deserve mercy. Will you release them when you return to your cave?”

  Ali Baba frowned.

  “But—”

  “You promised,” Drake cried.

  Ali Baba shook his head disgustedly.

  “All right, all right,” he said moodily. “But it is a hard thing you ask, for I have been thinking these last few hours of the exact spoke to which I would chain Tana, the foul ingrate who betrayed us. But,” he shrugged disgustedly, “as you say, I have given my promise. It shall be done.”

  “Thanks, Comrade,” Drake said. “You’ll feel better yourself about—He felt a slight shiver shake his body. “Goodbye,” he said anxiously. “I think—”

  His consciousness faded in a roaring spiral of darkness that seemed to pluck him upward with incredible speed and power . . .

  WHEN Sharon regained consciousness she was in Washington, D.C., and to her intense relief, in the twentieth century. She went directly to her apartment, where she got rid of the clothes she had worn in the Caliph’s harem; then bathed and dressed she took a cab for the State Department . . .

  The three men at the table listened to her story, carefully, with thoughtfully pursed lips, frowns on their faces.

  When she had finished, the man in the center, a tall, gray-haired gentleman, with a shrewd lined face, glanced briefly at his two companions and then turned back to her, smiling.

  “Miss Ward,” he said, “we owe you a debt of thanks. From what you have told us we will be able to make the necessary preparations to check any attempt the Axis might make to invade South America.

  “We should have seen the way the wind was blowing ourselves,” he continued, with a wry smile; “but sometimes even the most obvious facts are overlooked.”

  “I feel relieved that it’s out of my hands,” Sharon said. “Drake—Mr. Masterson insisted that T come to you immediately.”

  “He was right,” the gray haired man assured her. He paused and then frowned. “But where is Mr. Masterson now? He is one of our most able young men and there’s a number of jobs we could use him on.”

  Sharon faltered.

  “I really can’t tell you,” she said, because I don’t know. But he won’t be back to Washington for another year.”

  “I see, Miss Ward. I realize, of course, that he must have been out of the country to gather this information.” He shook his head admiringly. “These young men have a spirit of adventure that I respect tremendously. Why this whole thing is just like something from the Arabian Nights.”

  Sharon smiled.

  “Isn’t it, though?” she said.

  She left the offices of the State Department, feeling relieved and fairly happy. But she wondered what the devil she was going to do for a whole year . . .

  SILVER RAIDERS OF SIRIUS

  First published in the July 1943 issue of Amazing Stories.

  The surprise attack of that mysterious ship out in space was nothing compared to the attack his government made on loyal space captain Hanley!

  CHAPTER I

  THE observation ship bearing the insignia of the Federation Patrol was a streaking pin-point of light against the black immensity of the void. It was blasting across the trackless wastes of space toward Earth.

  On the forward control bridge of the hurtling ship, second officer Ward Hanley turned an instant from the visi-screen and grinned cheerfully at his lanky assistant, Brick Masters.

  “Just a few more hours,” he said, “and we’ll be home again. This has been a long trip.”

  “And a dull one,” Brick said sourly. “Why they want to photograph millions of square miles of nothing is more than I can figure out.”

  “They’ve got to use us for something,” Ward said. “We can’t just sit around space bases and draw our pay. These observation flights at least break the monotony a bit.”

  He turned back and studied the visi-screen with alert, careful eyes; but its broad black screen was empty, except for a trail of light in one corner which was caused by an asteroid storm a few hundred thousand miles away.

  “The Federation hasn’t got much to do these days,” he said. “The space wars ended years ago, while you and I were still in knee pants.” He sighed slightly. “A Federation officer then had a real job. But now . . .” He shrugged his wide, heavy shoulders and didn’t bother to complete the sentence. His tanned, clean-cut features were serious under the shadow of visored cap.

  “I know what you mean,” Brick muttered. He shoved his cap back on his head and frowned disgustedly. “This job would be fine for an old man with a touch of gout who needed a good rest. I’m getting sick of it. If things don’t pick up, I’m going to resign my com
mission and take a crack at getting a master’s ticket for the Merchant service. At least you can make some money with your own tub.”

  “That’s true,” Ward said slowly. He was silent for a moment. “You know,” he said, at last, “I’ve had the same idea myself for several months. I entered the Federation service because I figured Earth might need fighting officers again some day. But I don’t want to sit around the next thirty years twiddling my thumbs and waiting for a pension.”

  “That’s the way I feel,” Brick said somberly. He shook his head disgustedly. “And the Federation is getting worse every day. Did you see the last bulletin before we left? The one about stripping armor and cannon off everything in the service except half a dozen experimental fighters? What kind of an outfit will we be without armed ships? We might just as well be in the Merchant service then.”

  Ward frowned thoughtfully.

  “I saw that bulletin,” he said. “I suppose the brass hats know what they’re doing, but wouldn’t we be in a sweet spot if we were attacked after we had junked all our armed ships?”

  “Who’d attack us?” Brick asked in surprise. “The planets in our system are uninhabited and the Federation rounded up the last of the freebooters years ago. The only ships operating in the void are licensed by the Federation and their position and movements are known every minute.”

  Ward shrugged. “I was stating a hypothetical proposition. There isn’t any likelihood of our being attacked, but it seems to me we shouldn’t bank absolutely on that. As long as there’s a possibility of trouble breaking, we should keep an armed force ready.”

  “But that’s just the point,” Brick said gloomily, “there isn’t any possibility of trouble starting.”

  “Maybe,” Ward said.

  HE WAS silent for an instant as he studied the blank face of the visi-screen. Finally he turned to Brick and his grey eyes were thoughtful. “It’s a funny thing, Brick,” he said quietly, “but this attitude of pacifism has gotten much stronger recently. Until a few years ago the policy of Earth was preparedness—preparedness for any contingency. Earth learned that lesson back in nineteen-forty, over a hundred years ago. But now, there seems to be a systematic attempt to completely change that policy. And I’ve been wondering a lot about it lately.”

  Brick scratched the top of his red head and frowned at Ward.

  “I don’t get what you’re drivin’ at,” he said.

  “Maybe I don’t know myself,” Ward said ironically. “But I do know that a number of officers don’t agree with the Federation’s present policy of destroying our offensive space force. And,” he continued grimly, “it’s odd how fast such officers disappear into obscurity. Remember Captain Slater?”

  “Certainly,” Brick said. “His books on space fighting are standard texts. He was about the greatest fighter pilot the Federation ever developed. What happened to him?”

  Ward shrugged.

  “He was tactless enough to raise hell when the orders came through several years ago to cut the fighter squadrons in half. And when the restrictions on attack firing in the void were handed down he let loose another blast. That was five years ago.”

  “Where is he now?” Brick asked. “Nobody knows,” Ward said. “He resigned his commission and left the service. That, at least, is the official story. But the same thing has happened since then to dozens of officers who had the guts to speak their minds.”

  “Well,” Brick said, “maybe they’re better off on the outside. At least they can make a living.”

  “That’s one way of looking at it,” Ward shrugged. He turned again to the visi-screen. This time he noticed an oblong silver object moving dead ahead at approximately the speed of his own craft.

  “Take a look,” he said to Brick. “What do you think?”

  Brick studied the screen with an intent scowl on his face, before turning to Ward.

  “I’d say it’s another ship, except it’s too damned big. Bring it up a bit closer and maybe we can tell a little better.”

  WARD snapped on the telescopic lens and the silver oblong on the visi-screen came into clearer sharper focus; and it was unmistakably a space ship.

  “See any markings?” Ward asked. He was hunched forward, straining his eyes to pick out some identifying feature or insignia.

  “Nope,” Brick shook his head. “She isn’t showing her ensign and there don’t seem to be any license devices at the bow.”

  “Pretty well covered up,” Ward said slowly. He studied the screen for another thoughtful moment and his eyes were troubled.

  “She isn’t a Federation ship,” he said musingly. “And I’ve never seen a Merchant craft of that size or with those lines. She’s probably fast as the devil.”

  Brick looked up from a directional chart that was pinned to the desk in front of him.

  “Her course is about on ours, just a few diagonal points off to the left. I’d say she’s making a wide sweep to head back away from Earth.”

  “What’s her speed?” Ward asked with a frown.

  “Pretty close to ours,” Brick answered. He glanced inquiringly at Ward. “Do you think we should call the old man?”

  Ward shook his head slowly.

  “No. He was practically out on his feet when he turned in. And his fever hadn’t gone down.” He studied the visi-screen for several seconds, watching the slow movement of the silver oblong before he sat down at the central control desk and picked up a communication hose.

  He pressed a button that connected him with the radio compartment.

  “Central Control to Radio,” he said briskly. “Stand by to send message.”

  “Right, sir. Standing by.”

  “Contact ship dead ahead, few points diagonal to our course. Send them our compliments and ask them their name, charter, destination and last port of call.”

  “Right, sir. I’ll give you their reply in a few minutes, sir.”

  Ward pressed another button and spoke to the rear propulsion power room.

  “Central Control to rear power room: Give me ten additional units of speed.”

  “Right, sir.”

  A few seconds later Ward felt a slight vibration under his feet as the ship responded to the stepped-up blasts from the rear propulsion tubes. He kept his eyes on the silver ship on the visi-screen. For a moment or so they drew perceptibly closer to the strange ship. Although its size increased noticeably on the screen, they were still unable to notice any identifying markings or insignia.

  BUT then the silver ship obviously accelerated its own speed for after a few moments it began to draw away, gradually but definitely.

  “They’ve sighted us,” Ward said grimly, “and they’re obviously not going to wait for us.”

  He spoke to the power room again—one clipped sentence.

  “Full speed ahead!”

  “Right, sir.”

  The ship leaped forward with a velocity that made its former speed seem as if they had been idling; but after a moment or so Ward realized that the silver ship was keeping the same distance between them. It had stepped-up its speed to match their own.

  The buzzer from the radio compartment sounded and Ward picked up the communication hose quickly.

  “Radio to Central Control: Ship ahead refuses to open communications.”

  “Send this message,” Ward snapped. “Order them to reduce speed to 40:40 and stand by for lock contact with this ship. Send that as a direct order from the Federation Observation ship, Astra. If they refuse to open communication tell them we will open fire! Have you got that?”

  There was a doubtful pause from the radio compartment.

  Finally the operator said, “Yes, sir.”

  Ward tossed the communication hose back to the desk and studied the visi-screen with anxious eyes.

  Brick let a long whistle escape through his lips.

  “You’re talking yourself into a spot, Ward,” he said worriedly.

  Ward didn’t answer. He continued to study the screen and the silver shi
p that was flashing through the void thousands of miles ahead of their course. The silver ship was turning slightly on its diagonal course, swinging slowly off the Astra’s orbit. In a few minutes its lateral direction would take it off the foreward visi-screen completely.

  “It’s not slowing down,” Brick said quietly.

  Ward nodded silently. The mysterious ship was disregarding his orders, that was evident.

  The buzzer sounded from the radio compartment and Ward picked up the hose.

  “Ship ahead refused to open communications, sir.” The operator’s voice was nervously tense. “I gave them two minutes to reply and then warned them we were ready to open fire.”

  “Repeat that message and give them two more minutes,” Ward ordered. He dropped the hose and connected to the forward cannon turret.

  “Central Control to Chief Cannoneer: Stand by to engage ship on lateral course.”

  “Right, sir!”

  WARD wiped his palms nervously on the sides of his breeches.

  Brick was regarding him anxiously.

  “You can’t open fire, Ward,” he said. “It’s against orders. You know we aren’t supposed to open fire under any circumstances unless radio communication has been established.”

  “I’m running this ship,” Ward snapped. “This may be my last command, but I’ll be damned if I’ll sit at a control bridge and let a stray ship thumb its nose at the authority of the Federation. I’ve given them a direct order and they’ve chosen to ignore it.” He glanced at his watch. “They’ve had their two minutes. He signaled the gun turret. “Stand by to fire! Put two blasts over their bow and then wait instructions.”

  Brick grabbed his arm suddenly.

  “Look!” he cried. He was pointing at the silver ship on the screen. From its bow an orange-red flash had exploded. “They’ve beaten us to it,” he shouted excitedly. “They’re opening fire!”

  Ward grabbed the communication hose and closed a switch that put him in contact with the ships’ gun turrets.

  “Central Control to cannon turrets: Assume battle stations. Fire when you’re ready.”